


Buzzard

by Le0na



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Season 3 Finale, Angel Wings, Battle Wings, Gen, Injury, POV Outsider, Post Season 3 Finale, Surgery, Talons, Veterinary Clinic, Veterinary Medicine, Weird Biology, Zoology, non-graphic surgery, not season 4 compliant, ornithology, speculative biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-02-07 13:41:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le0na/pseuds/Le0na
Summary: Buzzards are large raptorial birds found in many places, California included. Mainly feeding on carrion, they are incredibly important the the ecosystem as they act as janitors of the wild. Their large wingspan allows even a small flock to block other scavengers from a carcass. Their featherless faces are relatively easy to keep clean, even after sticking it into a carcass to tease out that last piece of meat. Harold had treated his fair share of sick buzzards in the length of his career. His current patient had the largest wingspan he'd ever seen. He couldn't find a single feather on its face. His patient wasn't a buzzard.Chloe's worldview has been upended, her partner shot, and the hospital most likely isn't equipped for anything with a wingspan. Quick thinking and triage of thoughts will be vital for the foreseeable future.





	1. Everything's Turned on its Head

Harold was going to kill that fortune teller. It was all his fault. It had to be. He’d told Harold “You will find yourself in a position many only dream of.” Of course, the fortune teller neglected to mention which _kind_ of dream. So yeah, he was staring at his worst nightmare in every conceivable way, and he was blaming the fortune teller.

The man- bird- angel- _thing-_ on his table twitched. Another drop of blood fell to the tile. The small red puddle grew a little. Harold flinched. The officers winced. Harold’s mind raced with wholey unhelpful thoughts.

Or maybe it was Becky’s fault. Yeah, that sounded right. Harold had never liked fairs, but Becky “Stick out her Necky” El-dori had insisted. Curse the infectious charm of a woman who knows her way around a printer and blackmail.

Harold grew desperate. Desperate to be anywhere _but_ here, desperate to think of anything _except_ the thing on the table. Another drop of blood fell to the linoleum tile. The thing twitched again. Alabaster claws flicked over his regular nails. They matched the wickedly hooked claw on his first wing digit and were far too long to have fit in the space they unsheathed from.

On third thought, maybe it was the detectives’ fault. After all, they were the ones who had called him up in the middle of the night. They hadn’t prepared him for this. All they said was they had a large patient. They’d practically accosted him!

Chloe gave a polite cough, “So, can you help or do we need to find another ornithologist?” How many veterinarians had they broken so far? Was Harold the first? Was there going to be a group therapy session he could go to after this? Harold certainly hoped so.

Harold rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his hands. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. This- this was happening, wasn’t it? Another drop of blood ran down unnaturally piebald wings, dark blood contrasting with ethereal white feathers. The thing on the table was bleeding. Whatever it was, it probably shouldn’t be bleeding. Harold had yet to encounter a creature who benefited from uncontrolled hemorrhaging. Then again, he’d yet to encounter a creature with both hair and feathers before tonight, so who really knows at this point?

If there was a time for autopilot, it was now. Harold grabbed a towel and approached the thing -the patient- on the table for the first time since the group had entered his operating theatre. He covered his patient’s head with it. If Harold had _any_ luck -or, more likely, Karma, since luck decided it would be a fine idea to introduce a hexapedal endoskeletal _thing_ into his life; Harold was pretty sure Karma owed him a thing or twelve at that point- the towel would keep the patient from waking up sooner. If nothing else, it would provide a half-second distraction before it spotted him. Still not enough time for his life to properly flash before his eyes, but by that point it’d been playing on repeat in the back of his mind for a solid few minutes. He still hadn’t figured out what he’d done to deserve this, but Harold was sure he’d find it eventually.

With that pleasant thought out of the way, there were some questions Harold needed answered. “First and foremost what,” _the actual #@% &!?, _“am I treating?”

Chloe was slightly confused at the ornithologist’s only action thus far, but elected not to voice anything (yet.) A towel on the face wasn’t exactly a threatening gesture, and it looked like he was ready to treat Lucifer. Plus, and he hadn’t run screaming. That made one vet for three.

“Three dozen gunshot wounds. Bullets are still lodged.” Chloe said. Harold continued to rack his brain who anything he might have done to deserve the situation he found himself in. Maybe it was the time he helped a certain high-profile actor with his less than legal pet. But what else was he supposed to do, let the animal suffer? So that couldn’t be it. Oh… what was Harold getting himself into?

The doctor asked a dozen more questions regarding such topics as: allergies, heart rate, acid blood, reflexes, previous injuries, blood type, whether everything’s a dream, seriously guys please tell me I’m dreaming, and diet. Finally, Harold was ready to operate. Sort of. Harold would usually get an x-ray or eight before operating, but that was off the table for a multitude of reasons, including but not limited to: Harold wasn’t comfortable moving the patient in its condition with so few people, the x-ray machine was nowhere _near_ big enough, and Harold wasn’t sure the _hallways_ were big enough. He wasn’t entirely sure how the cops got the patient in here in the first place. Usually he'd bathe the patient as well, but once again, that was off the table for another laundry list of reasons. He'd have to make due with a through wash and disinfecting of only the areas around the wounds.

So, he was as intellectually ready as he was going to be. Emotionally he was still somewhere between “trapped in a sinking ship” and “now the sinking ship is on fire.” It was all Harold could do to keep from reaching the “ship is sinking and on fire. I really didn’t think it could get worse, but what do you know, now there’s a kraken involved” level. It was working too, his “freaking out” level wasn’t rising. It wasn’t sinking either, but what can you do? You have to take these crisis one thing at a time.

So, Harold took a deep breath, squeezed his rampaging emotions in a box for later evaluation, tucked his hair into a net, put on latex gloves, and immediately ran into a problem.

The patient’s feathers were sharp. And not feathers. Harold wasn’t sure what they were, but they definitely weren’t feathers. The not-feathers were _sharp._ And _hard._ What the #%*@.

Harold retrieved the raptor gloves. Then a second pair. He managed to keep the third set intact long enough to get a good idea of the patient’s wings. Or, at least a _better_ idea. Okay, least now Harold was absolutely positively sure he had never seen anything like them before.

The closest thing he could compare them to were swan wings. Less in form and more in function; swan wings were essentially big clubs which also so happened to allow flight. The patient’s wings appeared to fill a similar evolutionary niche, thick wing muscles and bones for a stronger swing. That was roughly where the similarities ended. Obviously, these wings were far, far bigger. Not to mention the structure was completely different. The underlying bone structure was bat-like, with long webbed fingers ending in curved claws.

Suddenly, the hard not-feathers made a bit more sense. They weren’t for flight, they were weapons. Bats didn’t need feathers to fly, and -if this hypothesis was correct- neither did the patient. Harold nudged the base of one of the “feathers.” His eyes widened. The “feathers” weren’t feathers. Not in the slightest.

They were scales.

Hard and sharp and light, the protrusions were closer to knives than feathers. They lacked a the single main shaft and flexibility of plumage. Upon closer inspection the feathers split into two layers: a hard outer coating and a softer inner layer. If Harold’s racing mind was correct, this served not only to keep the scales from rubbing and cutting the flesh of the wing, but would also keep the scales sharp. The softer tissue would wear down before the harder coating, leaving a razor cutting edge.

A polite cough broke Harold’s studious trance. Right, injured hexapod. Scientific curiosity could be saved for later. Right now he needed to remember the job at hand, saving this thing.

Dan -the one who coughed- asked, “How bad is it doc?”

Harold didn’t answer. He was too busy figuring brushing blood soaked feathers out of the way. It wasn’t good, but at the same time…

“It really should be worse.”

Chloe made a noise only describable as a confused snarl. Dan put a hand on her shoulder, but also raised an eyebrow. Harold scrambled to elaborate.

“What I mean is, the, uh, _feathers_ slowed down the bullets considerably. They would have embedded much deeper in the muscle.” Harold glanced at the officers, gauging their reaction. They were still tensed, but had calmed a bit at his explanation.

“What do we do now?” Said Chloe.

“ _You_ both need to leave. I’ll remove the bullets and patch the holes up.”

Dan complied immediately, but Chloe lingered.

“Detective, unless you can help, you need to _leave.”_

Another long second passed before Chloe relented. Harold huffed in relief. Now he could get to his patient without distractions.

And get to it he did.


	2. It's Times Like This I Wish I Was MacGyver Or Literally ANYONE Else

The blood had already clotted by the time Harold was removing bullets. This meant he could extract the metal at his “leisure,” without worrying about the patient bleeding out. On the other hand, it _also_ meant there was time for the blood to clot*, so who knows how much blood it had already lost?

Wings were usually the easiest part to work with in Harold’s experience. Yes, many patients were permanently grounded afterwards, but that was hardly Harold’s fault. The damage was usually so severe _before_ they got to him it was all he could do to save the limb. No, the reason he preferred working on wings was the lack of vital organs. He hoped this patient followed the latter trend.

The bullet wounds themselves were -for the most part- fairly shallow. Most could be removed with a simple pluck of the forceps, others required an extra incision. One jammed itself right against the Humerus. That wasn’t fun. Despite the knife-scales turning the whole ordeal into something not unlike a high-stakes game of “operation” none of it was in the least bit enjoyable.

Disinfecting each wound was an even more tedious task, one needing to be done at multiple stages in the operation. Dressing was similarly difficult, each bandage needing to be brought through a layer of scales before application. Then he needed to navigate the smaller -thankfully duller- scales mimicking down and semiplumes to secure the dressing. Trimming scales wasn’t an option either. Harold found _that_ out the hard way.

By the time he was done Harold had gone through no less than a dozen sets of gloves, three times as many shredded dressings, and a pair of medical shears. People were going to ask what happened to the heavy-duty scissors. When they did, Harold would tell them it was Becky’s fault, which it was _._ Sort of. Maybe. Again, who really knows? The whole incident was making Harold reconsider his stance on wild conspiracy theories.

The primary scales were not only the biological response to swords, but the tips spread widely from each other. Vultures had similar -if less deadly- primaries, allowing for greater lift on thermals and a longer soaring flight. They’d coast for long periods the pockets of warm air looking for a meal. This thing was built for some long-arse flights.

Harold moved to treat a shot around the forearm of the right wing when said limb recoiled. Harold jumped. Whoever he was billing for this was also going to owe him the three years this thing took off his lifespan. When his heart rate dropped below the bpm of a dubstep song he pursed his lips. A small amount of scrutiny later and his heart dropped below his knees.

Not only did the patient catch half an armory’s work of bullets in their wings, but they’d broken one.

Upon closer investigation he identified the break as a butterfly fracture. It was closed, not easily noticeable if the patient was under, he didn’t have radiology to work off, and he didn’t know the species. Most birds who came in with broken wings never flew again.

Even with a team of people all fresh and prepared, wings were delicate things. These ones seemed more durable than most, but they were still wings, not to mention absolutely massive, the radius easily as thick as Harold’s own. Plus Harold wasn’t exactly at 100%. And the patient wasn’t of any species he’d ever even heard of, much less worked with before. And he didn’t have anyone else to help. And he didn’t know when the patient would wake.

All Harold could really in the time was try to set the bone, disinfect it, wrap it, and hope for the best. Harold grimaced. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this alone. He’d known that for a while. At the same time, he didn’t really have much in the way of options. Sure, he could call the police, but the police elected to bring the thing to him so…

Harold finished his sixteenth tie-on bandage and sighed. He’d been at this for two hours already and was running low on steam. Moving onto the seventeenth and final bandage he knew he’d need to tackle that bone. But how? An x-wrap wasn’t exactly going to work, he couldn’t brush the webbing aside like he could with feathers. Ideally he’d put in a metal rod in there and fix the shards to _that._ Harold wracked his brain for an answer. It was a butterfly fracture, not good. It was just the radius, that was good. If the bone hadn’t sharded he could’ve set it against the ulna. As it stood, it looked like surgery would be required if the wing was to heal correctly. Harold simply couldn’t do that right now.

Harold grabbed a metal rod and looked at the wings once more. His stitching would hold up fine, assuming nothing _else_ went wrong. His stitching… Harold chewed his bottom lip, eyes narrowed. That was an idea.

He stitched a few tie-over loops on either side of the break and fitted the rod snugly against the break. A criss-cross wrapping job through the loops and over the rod would keep it tight against the wing and keep it stable. It was his best shot. More importantly, it was his only idea. He briefly considered trying to tuck the wing against the body. Said idea was quickly dismissed as the bone wasn’t well secured. Besides, Harold reasoned he probably wouldn’t be able to move a wing that big anyway. Certainly not that one sharp.

With the obvious injuries out of the way, he continued his treatment. Harold’s eyes widened further as they continued down. Raptors were partially defined by their large, grasping talons. Harold had been around the block more than once in that regard. He still had scars from where an owl had refused to let go on his second day on the job. If this thing had done the same, Harold would be down an arm if not a torso. Harpy eagles currently stood as the champion of talon size, rivaling a grizzly bear in claw-length. Today their throne was toppled. The foot could best be described as a combination of bird and human. If one took a human’s foot and elongated the metatarsal and phalanges, cut the split of the toes to about halfway back the foot, moved the outer toes to the heel, then added a solid pint of nightmare fuel and some warped railroad spikes they’d get something about half as terrifying as what Harold was looking at.

 

Scraps of cloth hung from each foot. The left killing claw -a blade easily the length of Harold’s forearm- twitched. One should never rush a surgery. That’s how mistakes and medical malpractice suits are made. Harold _really_ wanted to hurry and finish before it woke up.

Harold wrapped things up, checking his equipment setting up a drip or three. One on each wing and one in the arm. Most other vets wouldn’t know how to put an IV in on a person, but this sort of thing had happened before. Not this _exact_ sort of thing, but Harold once had to treat a woman limping in with a knife still stuck in her leg. He’d stemmed the bleeding while Johansson went on a library run. After that incident they’d kept medical textbooks for everything on hand. Luckily the woman made it out alright. They’d taken her to an actual hospital, her laughing all the way about how they “should see the other guy.” Considering the blood on her hands and brass knuckles in her pockets, they really didn’t want to. That day remained the fourth worst of his career.

 

Harold did a final check of his equipment, the patient, and what little was left of his sanity for good measure and promptly left the room with a fervor usually reserved for flight from lions and awkward dinner conversations. Only when the door was shut behind him did Harold even begin to relax. Of course, he did so by internally screaming -again-, promptly hurrying to the washroom to remove the sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids, and made his way to the waiting room.

 

Harold’s establishment was an odd one. It was less “hole in the wall” and more “part in the wall, part in the ground, wraps around to the other side of the building, and is bisected by a bakery.” Said bakery may or may not also run a money laundering operation on the side, but it was really none of Harold’s business. It was either a place you stumbled across completely by accident, or somewhere you searched for for hours before throwing your hands in the air and accidentally smacking the deck clerk across the face. Or, your name was Elliot and you burst in on a bi-weekly basis insisting your chicken was pregnant despite the fact a.) it’s a rooster and b.) birds don’t give live birth. Harold had reason to suspect drugs were involved.

 

The clinic’s reputation was heavily dependent on word of mouth for one important reason. They’d treat anything. Many places could at least direct you to a vet specializing in exotics, but their clinic would take _exotics._ Nothing was too weird for this place. Or, at least, that was the mindset before today.

 

The layout wasn’t about to change anytime soon, regardless of the mental state of the solo skeleton crew running the place. They had -among other things- a waiting room. Said waiting room had pillows. Said pillows provided excellent muffling for screaming one’s tortured mind into.

 

Harold looked at the walls decorated with each employee’s plaque. They sported the person’s name, nickname, and job(s). His was right next to Becky, who in turn was next to Kevin “Slasher” Mortega, the Janitor and potential reformed serial killer. No one could track down his past, but there were more than a few things pointing to that conclusion. For one thing, the guy _came_ with that nickname. He said it was due to his love of horror films. No one believed it. Harold would swear up, down, left, right, and diagonally even the dog he was cleaning up after looked at him with a flat “Really?” plastered over its featureS.

 

Harold Sternum didn’t appreciate his nickname of “The Quack” at first, but it’d grown on him in his fifteen years of service. Harold was stalling and he knew it. One would never _dream_ of stalling when an animal’s in danger, but speaking with the people who brought them in… that was a whole other beast entirely. Harold gave one last, long huff through his nose and made his way back to the staff kitchen where the cops had settled.

 

He really, really didn’t want to go into that room. The detective’s face was the scariest thing he’d seen all day, forget the thing in the operating theatre. Actually, no, wait. None of that was true. Harold really, really wanted to forget the thing in the operating theater, but at the same he knew it was probably not a good idea.

 

The lady was pacing the short room like a bored tiger. Shoes tapped on checkered linoleum like the claws of a beast .Harold wasn’t about to throw in a heavy-duty rubber ball, nor did he wish to be mauled. But he would need to enter sooner or later. Or did he? He could just run, take his clothing, pick up his ringneck, and move to Utah. Yeah, that might just… the male cop’s gaze flicked between the plate of next-door eclairs on the table and his temporary roommate a few times, and got up. Harold ducked out of the window’s line of sight. It might have looked silly to any onlookers, but he was the only one there. A blessing and curse, for obvious reasons.

 

Harold swallowed the lump in his throat. His shoe scuffed the linoleum on his less than professional mission to get out there undetected. Luckily a budgie and a lab mix got into a heated conversation over his loud fashion sense. Once out of the cops’ line of sight he sprinted to the storeroom. With any luck the item he was looking for would relieve some tension. With _Harold’s_ current luck he was going to trip, fall, and stab his own eye out with a pen.

 

He paused at the door, the male cop looking at him with the female pacing. It didn’t look like she was going to stop or lower the intensity of her stare below “mother bear” so Harold took a deep breath and used his item.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Luckily, angel blood clots faster than human blood. Harold, however, doesn’t know this.


	3. WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY TEETH?!

Chloe did not jump when the colorful piece of plastic flew past her head. Nor did she snarl at the little bell embedded within. Anyone or security footage saying otherwise lies. Chloe did, however, glare at the bird toy. Why-

“I needed to break the tension.” Harold said from the doorway. “Now, we’re going to have a little chat.” He turned to leave. “You may want to grab some chairs.”

Harold didn’t look back on his walk to the surgical theatre. He feared he’d lose his nerve and bolt if he did. He didn’t want to go back to that room, to that creature. He really didn’t. But he had to. It was injured, those were police officers, and it was his job.

Harold snagged a catchpole from the wall. They were scattered about the clinic like fire extinguishers. You never knew where or when one would be useful and you needed to have it close when the situation arose. They’d saved Harold more than his fair share of fingers, and at least one point his neck.

The ornithologist turned to face his “clients” and put a finger to his lips before gesturing them into the operating theatre. Dan froze upon spotting the still limp form of their friend. His bare red chest rose and fell in soft breaths, each accompanied by a soft rasp. Chloe approached the body, almost touching it before recoiling in hesitation.

“E- _ hem. _ ” Dan snapped his gaze to the doctor at whiplash-inducing speed. When the cop first entered the clinic he looked like he’d been through the ringer, but now his face was white as fresh gauze. Harold cleared his throat again, grabbing Chloe’s attention. Her draw back was markedly slower, body turning first, head last.

Harold gave the chairs they held a pointed look. They got settled for what was sure to be an  _ interesting _ conversation.

“Normally this would be a discussion for the waiting room, but I think you’d both agree nothing here is normal.” Harold said, voice a harsh hiss. He glanced to the patient, taking in the slow rise and fall of the torso, the subsequent cascade of shifting scales. “What dose did you use?”

He got a puzzled look in place of any answer. “To knock him out.” He clarified, “What dose did you use?”

Dan looked to Chloe for the answer. She shook her head oh so slowly. Dan’s face had just begun regaining color, but that revelation set it back to paperwhite square one. Harold’s brain took its sweet time processing that information. He was fairly certain it was physically impossible for one’s stomach to migrate to their feet, but his body was doing its very best to prove him wrong.

He jabbed a finger at the sleeping beast, unable to get out more than a horse wheeze for a short time. When his voice finally returned it was an octave higher than he remembered. “Nothing?!” Not only was his voice a few octaves higher, it was also significantly louder. Harold almost shoved his fist into his mouth in his rush to quiet himself. Getting his hyperventilation under control monopolized the following minute.   


“You mean to tell me,” he said, nerves not so much under control as left to run rampant somewhere else in his head. His finger shook like a San Francisco seismograph where he pointed at the patient, “that’s unconscious due to blood loss?”

“I believe mainly due to shock actually, but blood loss is a factor as well.”

Harold had no prior history of seizures or panic attacks. One would be mistaken looking at him that day. His whole body was a leaf in the wind, ready to crumble at a moments notice. It could wake any moment. Patients usually took their time to wake if they ever did, but this wasn’t usual. Oh, he was going to die, he’d be torn to ribbons. Harold almost choked on his own tongue his throat was so dry. Harold staggered back, the world spinning, lights too bright. He was on the verge of collapse.

Then, he wasn’t. He’d passed the threshold. There comes a certain point where one can’t be any more terrified than they are. You run out of the chemicals that tell you to fear and whatever’s left takes up the mantle. The human mind loops the counter back to zero and you start from the bottom. What emotion takes over is a crap shoot, but you’re scared no longer.

He grounds his palms into his eye sockets. “You are aware of how bad this is, right?”

“More or less.” Said Dan. Chloe nodded.

“Let’s get a little context. I’m exhausted, mentally and physically. I just finished patching up no less than two dozen bullet wounds from a species I’ve never even considered the existence of. I  _ still _ need to set a fracture and perform a complex surgery on said species. I have no idea when it’s going to wake and I’m not about to tranq something with guesswork dosage. And to top it off I have no assistance. So before  _ anyone _ does anything else, I’m calling in backup and we’re restraining that.”

Both officer’s looked like they were going to say something, but this was non-negotiable. Harold spun on his heel and rushed the door, phone already in hand. She picked up before the second ring. The call to McGee was short, tense, and to the point. She’d pick up chain on her way. Worst case scenario she’d be here within the hour. In the meantime… He stormed back to the operating theatre.

Chloe stood, arms crossed. She stood over the patient, eyes and mouth narrow. A grimace tugged the corner of her lip. “I don’t think we need to restrain him.” She didn’t look at the doctor. Internal conflict and distaste colored her tone, at what Harold could only guess.

His lip curled to something between a sneer and a snarl.

Dan backed up and tried to fuse with the wall. Things were about to go down and he needed to get out of the line of fire. His eyes were the wide, crazed orbs of one wishing to be anywhere else.

“I don’t think you understand.” Harold snapped, fire in his eyes. Fear had fled, in its place frustration, annoyance, rage. He was  _ done. _ On some level he knew he really shouldn’t be so harsh on them. They didn’t know how to handle this species any better than he did. But Harold didn’t have the mental capacity to care at the time. “A swan can break bones with a blow of its wing. An eagle could crush your arm in its talons. This guy not only has the equipment for both, not only does he have it on a scale neither animal could  _ dream  _ of, but it’s been  _ upgraded. _ Those wings aren’t just clubs. They’re  _ blades _ . I couldn’t even move them for fear of slicing my hand open! Each one could probably bisect a  _ horse _ . Those claws are not just polydactyl, I’ve seen  _ swords _ shorter than those killing talons. When this thing wakes up it will be disoriented, in pain, and isn’t likely to know or care who helped it. Furthermore- What?!”

Harold snapped off his tirade at the severe look on Chloe’s face. It wasn’t one of utter terror like on Dan’s, but determination.

“ _ He’s _ a friend, that’s  _ what _ .” She snarled.

He didn’t see that one coming. It tripped him up. His rage didn’t fully subside, but it was dampened by a handful of “Uhh… okay then” dirt.

Many clients referred to their pets as “friends.” This was nothing new. People still knew when their patient needed to be restrained for a procedure. So why did she say this like it changed anythin-... Something occurred to Harold. A thought which blanked everything else in static. A shudder ran down Harold’s spine.

“Are you telling my patient’s sapient?” The question was flat, almost to the point to being a statement.

“Yes. We thought that was obvious.” She said.

The look Harold gave them was one of utter confusion, disbelief, and “what.” Dan’s expression didn’t change from the “Oh $#!&” he’d been wearing for the past minute.

It was Chloe’s turn to clarify. “He’s wearing pants.” That it-  _ he _ was. Rather nice ones by the look of it. In hindsight it was a pretty big detail to miss, but who could blame him? After all,  _ everything else _ was just the slightest bit distracting _. _

The patient made a noise. Harold stiffened, dreading the oncoming rise to consciousness. He didn’t wake. Rather, the patient merely coughed again. A different dread pooled in his stomach. This meant Harold had missed another important thing.

“Fourth drawer to the left. Flashlight. Now!” He kneeled under the patient’s head, hands feeling around the outside for any obstructions. He should have checked the airways as soon as they arrived. He should have called a psychologist as soon as they arrived. He should have made sure his will was updated as soon as they arrived. He should have put on a pot of coffee. He should have done a lot of things.

But all he had was the now. And in the now he was poking around the maw of a creature with far too many teeth. Harold was a man used to an overabundance of teeth. Most people don’t think birds have teeth, and many don’t. Those that do, however, they more than make up for the ones who lack. Penguins have a maw lined with tiny spikes to better grip fish and geese have a tongue lined with teeth. Waterfowl in general tend to have mouths straight from a horror film. Somehow this patient had all of them beat.

It wasn’t too bad at first. Just the uncanniness of working on a patient with human teeth. Then he depressed the tongue and he was looking at a torture device. Needle spikes unfolded from the sides of the throat, all pointing back. Harold was suddenly very glad he didn’t stick his hand back there. He was also very glad he wore brown pants that day. That mouth was a one-way death trap.

He was shaking like a leaf, so it was no wonder the forceps brushed against the side of the throat when reaching back a little further. Three inch fangs sprang down on either side of his hand. Harold froze. Not half a second later the eight inch ones unfolded right next to them. Those brushed his hand and that’s when Harold removed his hand.

“Of course,” He muttered, “of  _ course. _ He can’t just have wings that snap and claws that catch, he also must have the teeth that snatch!” Great, now he was misquoting Lewis Carroll. He wasn’t  _ going _ nuts, he’s passed the border three talons back and was barreling straight for the cliff of absolute raving madness. And he didn’t give any %&!#.

“It’s official, I do  _ not _ want to know what this guy’s eating.”

“From what I can tell, he usually doesn’t.”

“That’s  _ worse.” _ Harold said, just about ready to pull his own hair out. As it stood, his fingernails were starting to make little crescent marks where they dug into his scalp. “ _ That _ means those teeth aren’t for  _ eating, _ they’re for  _ defence.” _ Whatever possessed evolution to turn this guy’s mouth into “ Operation:  Saw edition” Harold really did not want to find out. The only other species Harold could think of with a reflex like this was the crocodile, and even then the reflex was simply to snap their mouth shut. Not this iron maiden surprise party of death*.

Harold stood up, slowly. He counted to ten on his fingers, making sure he still had all of them. Once satisfied with the intact phalanges he turned to the officers. Someone new stood at the theatre’s entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Someone please draw this heavy metal album cover. Thank you.


	4. Hey Look, More Spikes

People walked the other way when they saw Otis. Six foot three, full sleeve tattoos covering biceps the size of your thighs, her face shadowed by long cornrows reminiscent of Samara from “The Ring,” the Nigerian woman cut an imposing figure.

Otis McGee was a mystery. The staff didn’t have much to go off when it came to conversation. She was a woman of few words. They were well chosen, but sparse. Tattoos and old wounds covered each arm, scars tearing ink into patchwork puzzles of their original design. No one knew what they originally depicted. No one knew why she went by “Mr. McGee.” No one knew how she lost her eye, or what she did on her time off. Rumor had it she wrestled _bears_ . This was, of course, completely ridiculous. It was only _one_ bear.

“I have the chain you wanted.” She slung the item in question off her shoulder and dropped the links on an empty seat. What looked to be about forty feet of three gauge -each link about twice the size of a metal chopstick- rattling and sliding on the plastic seat.

Harold could _feel_ the stare Chloe leveled at him.

“I don’t think you quite understand what we’re dealing with here.” He said, grabbing a chunk of the balsa they kept on hand to splint swan wings. Balsa was a light wood with more in common with cardboard than oak. But it was still wood, and it was stiff. He swung the plank against the tips of the primaries.

The other half of the plank dropped to the ground. Balsa wood splintered unless cut cleanly with an extremely sharp implement. It could shatter with just the back and forth motion of a hand saw, so the stuff they got came pre-cut. You couldn’t tell the fresh slices on the piece Harold held from the ones made by a chop saw.

“I don’t know what he’s going to be like when he wakes. According to you he’s under from pain and _nothing else_ . If he wakes and the last thing he remembers is something -for example _bullets-_ causing said pain his immediate reaction’s probably going to be a defensive one. In my experience defensive means lashing out. Even a second of panic could mean unintentional decapitation.”

Chloe was no longer staring at the man, but past him. Her mouth was a thin line. Mixed feelings churned in her gut. He almost had her, all he needed was the finishing blow and Harold knew exactly what they had to hear, “Even if he doesn’t hurt anyone _else,_ he has a broken bone. Movement isn’t good for that.” Chloe nodded. Hindsight -the seer’s crystal ball to the past that it was- supplied Harold with the realization he should have lead with that.

A claw twitched. The room was silent but for the ragged hiss of breath and faint rattle of chain as Otis shifted her weight ever so slightly.

“Poor dearie.” Otis broke the lull in sound and rise in tension. While they were arguing, she’d moved to get a better look at the patient.

The look on Dan’s face was hard to explain. It included large amounts of “Really?!” and “what” but beyond that was difficult to pin down. The other conscious members of the group had similar “ _that’s_ your reaction to all this?” plastered on their faces. Chloe’s look also mixed in a little relief for flavor and Harold had a touch of “I really should’ve seen this coming.”

“You do this _often?_ ” Dan said.

Otis shook her head.

“Then-?!”

“I’ve done my research.” Something _dark_ flashed over her features. The look of one who knows too much, who wishes to forget but can’t.

“We also never let her choose films for staff movie night. Last time she did we got to see an ‘Iron Man’ film I wish I could unsee.” He made a face like he was choking back bile.

Otis merely shrugged, “I like body horror.”

“You should still know other people might be a little less enthused!” Harold snapped.

“I thought you could handle it.”

“What could have _possibly_ lead you to _that_ conclusion?!”

Another shrug. “You work _here._ ”

Harold opened his mouth, then shut it. Otis took this as her que to change the subject. “How do I help?” And after a moment’s thought she added, “Who are these people?”

“I’ll answer the second one later. Right now you need to stand over there and grab the upper half of that bone. I’m going to make an incision and secure the floating piece. You make sure the wing doesn’t move when I’m working. Oh! And don’t touch the edge of the scales.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

“You two, wrap those in tarp. It’ll keep the chain from digging into skin.” It should also keep them from rubbing too hard against the skin under the scales if any links managed to slip under them.

“He’s not going to like this.”

“Ask me how much I care. I dare you.” The cops decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting and got to work. That left the medical professionals to their job. Harold suddenly remembered Otis’ second question,  “Oh yeah, those two are cops.”

Otis had already put her hair back and gloves on when she raised an eyebrow. “They’ll explain later.” Harold said, gathering the last of his materials. Otis gave a short nod and got into position. Harold made the first incision.

The layers of scale on the top edge of the wing were fairly thin but somehow sharper than the ones covering the majority of the membrane. And still he couldn’t pluck them. Doing so would leave damage comparable to pulling out fingernails. Pliers were the only thing keeping his hands from mangling worse than a certain unnamed tractor incident which shall never be mentioned. By the end of the day his forceps were going to be scratched to all hell and back.

Upon further inspection of the wing he noticed small white protrusions poking up from beneath the skin. Was that… of course. Of course the wings weren’t _just_ clubs covered in bladed scales, of course they weren’t. Because why have that when you can also have secret, surprise spikes _embedded in the bones._ Why not?

They peeked through small slots in the skin not from injury, no. That would be far too “safe” for this patient. Too “tame.” Too “logical.” Too “not mind meltingly terrifying with every new anatomical section he treated.” No, this wasn’t some benign-to-sanity compound fracture, this was as natural as the rest of Harold’s patient. How natural that _was,_ Harold didn’t care to hazard a guess. They mirrored the teeth in shape and number and were only evident when you pushed the feathers aside. A quick check revealed yes, this was mirrored on the humerus. This, of course, meant not only did the _outside_ of the wing joints double as weapons, but the inner ones were pretty much bear traps.

Harold tried maneuvering around the spikes. By his fifth pricked finger and second bisected implement he knew it wouldn’t work. Any more stings to the hand and he wouldn’t be able to operate. But how to treat this? He couldn’t trim them, this wasn’t claw or quills. Those grew back, he could trim those. This was _bone._ Bone, bone, what to do with bone?

The answer came to him in the form of his own gloves. They kept claw caps at the clinic for any particularly feisty felines in need of a longer stay. That, and to show to ignorant owners there was in fact an alternative to declawing. They wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but they’d get the job done. They only had to cap a small patch of spikes around the broken area and Harold could finally get to work.

Upon spotting the broken bone itself, he stared. He glanced to the officers who really shouldn’t be in here, but Harold had no $!#@s left to give anymore. He looked back at the bone, veins of _metal_ winding their way through compressed tissue.

“Did you get the number of the truck that hit him?” Harold breathed, half stunned, half fed up with this bull $#!%, “Because it’s either that or an elephant.”

The wing was not hollow. Not at all. If Harold wasn’t hallucinating (a distinct possibility considering the rest of the day) this guy had _metal_ running through his bones*. _Naturally._ How or even _if_ this guy could fly was -pardon the expression- up in the air.

“Make the truck a stone pillar and reverse who’s doing the hitting and you’ve got your answer.” At Harold’s lack of response she clarified, “When I entered the room there was a pillar. When I got back there was two halves of a pillar.”

“And a lot of bodies.” Added Dan. The moment those words left his mouth he regretted them. Why had he said that? It would just fluster the doctor and… yep. There it was.

Harold stopped. Otis looked up for the first time since she grabbed the wing. There was a reason only surgeons and patients were allowed in the operating room. Other people were distractions. They usually tried to encourage or touch the patient or _admit the patient has a body count!?_

“They were still alive when I called it in.” Chloe said, noticing the surgeon’s lack of movement. Harold couldn’t hear what was muttered next and elected to ignore the ensuing conversation. Alive or not, this guy dropped people. And the officer was _hesitant_ to restrain him!

Harold was going to forget about what they’d said regarding the patient being sapient. He was going to forget about what they said regarding the patient having a body count. If he was going to function properly in the next hour he couldn’t think about it. He’d prefer not to think of it ever. He had the feeling the latter wouldn’t be an option. Repressing was an option, but not a good one. Still, that was a problem for future Harold. He’d freak out later.

He managed to line the bone up to heal correctly. The corresponding breakpoints of the metal veins on each chunk helped. He secured the plate - more of a series of rods really- to the bone with wire. Seeing as the bones were solid there was less of a chance of sharding and shattering, but Harold wasn’t about to take his chances with pins now. He wound the wire slowly and carefully, more secure and precise than usual. And his usual was pretty damn precise. He _really_ didn’t want to go back in there. Stitching was just as tedious and exhausting as before. Another nick to his fingers and he tied off the last stitch Otis looked to him for confirmation and let her hands drop. Finally, he was done.

But he wasn’t, was he?

He still had to bind the wing to the body. Harold thanked past Harold for calling in backup. There was no way he’d have been able to do this alone.

A quick check confirmed Harold’s suspicion. The front of the torso was fully intact. He’d have checked it over before, but once again there was the pesky issue moving the patient. Or, rather, his lack of ability to do so.

Harold wasn’t sure what to do about the arms. It wasn’t usually a problem. Bird arms were their wings so all you needed to do was tie their wings to their sides. The answer was made a lot clearer when a new shine caught his eye. A long spur, tucked flat against the lower arm. It ran the length from the elbow to the wrist, and upon closer inspection Harold could make out the membrane running between the spur and arm. He took the alabaster spike between thumb and forefinger and gently tested its range of motion. It pivoted at the elbow with around seventy degrees of motion before the membrane pulled taught.

The patient didn’t have anything significant in the way of a tail to steer, so Harold reasoned this was probably the directing device. Of course, in the animal kingdom if something can serve multiple purposes, it probably does. And -of _course-_ this guy can’t _just_ have literal nine inch nails, no, he _also_ needs _sabres_ in his forearm. Harold wasn’t about to take any chances with there. For all he knew this guy was also venomous. Harold needed to finish and finish fast, _before_ the patient regained consciousness.

First the wings were pinned to his sides with a layer of gauze. It was a delicate process, easily taking half an hour. Keeping the bandage intact while pressing against razor-scales was a task neither medic had practice with. While wrapping they came across another blade folded between the shoulder blades. It had a membrane in the same vein as the ones at the elbows, and at the base… Harold giggled. He couldn’t help it. This was too _much._

That was _child down._ Most of the “flight feathers” had grown in, but there was still a patch of what could only be child down on those shoulder blades. Based on what Harold could make out of the recognizable bone structure, combined with adolescent down, that left only one option.

In terms of maturity, this guy was in the human equivalent of his early twenties at the oldest, most likely late teens.

Harold _laughed._ It really was too funny.

He was losing it, wasn’t he? He really needed to get back to the task at hand. Dealing with mental wounds could come after.

Chain came next, along with a scrutinizing look from The Detective. Harold couldn’t have cared if he wanted to. They wrapped the patient three-fold before Harold was satisfied. Normally they’d move the patient to observation when done, but nothing about this was normal. Harold wasn’t about to try and move something this big, heavy, bulky, and potentially lethal at his energy level. Not even with help. There was a line. What said line was a line in, where it was, and what it dictated were all irrelevant. There was a line.

The key word of course, being “was.” It had been thoroughly obliterated around when two cops stormed his office with the closest thing he’s ever seen to a dragon in the back of their pickup. Self preservation instincts were still a thing though. Sure, they’d given up when Harold almost got his hand caught in a living, breathing iron maiden, but they existed.

Oh, who was he kidding? Or even speaking too? If Harold was being honest, experience and momentum were the only things keeping him upright and semi-coherent. Probably also some shock and maybe a little insanity. By that point he couldn’t be sure.

“Now,” Harold rounded on one of the bringers of madness, “You _owe_ all of us an explanation.”

Chloe slumped in her seat, hand clutching her forehead, “Where do I start?”

The rhetorical question hung over everyone’s heads for a beat. Dan stepped into the proverbial fray,  “How about I give them some background? You can jump in when things get… _weird._ ” Chloe nodded, glancing over to her ex with a slow thankful blink before resuming her staring contest with a piece of the floor.

He gave them the elevator pitch of their past few weeks. It was a long-arse elevator, but an elevator nonetheless. Chloe had scant few minutes to get the story straight in her head and ready for presentation.

“... they left for the address. Ella called in a favor, we found out the guy was an only child. They were walking into a trap. I managed to reach her two minutes later. After they walked into it. About five minutes after that I get a call. And, well… Chloe?” He addressed the female officer, hope and desperation clambering for dominance in his eyes. “Care to,” _please, for the love of everything_ please _explain,_  “fill in the blanks?”

“We arrived at the building.” Best start with the things she was absolutely certain of. Unfortunately that was it. Everything else was subject to the innate corruption of memory. Everything else but names. But if Lucifer was _Lucifer,_ then was Pierce really… Should she call him Pierce, or… “Pierce was waiting. So were his mercenaries. I tried de escalating the situation but he was fixated on killing Lucifer-”

Harold made the short, abrupt sound of someone choking on their own tongue. The doctor waved off their concerned looks, gesturing the officer to continue. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but _dear Elijah!_ The only betrayal of his inner turmoil came in the form of the panic shining through his eyes. He clamped down on it, pushing it to the side. It was a temporary fix, but that’s all he needed. He’d ask his questions when she was done. Now, he needed to focus.

“I tried talking him down. That _moron,_ ” She nodded to her unconscious partner. Whatever he was, Chloe was still fairly certain Lucifer was still an impulsive idiot, “wanted me to leave it to them. I stepped between him and Pierce. I thought I could still talk him down. Pierce made it quite clear he was willing to do anything to escape. He was about to give the orders to open fire, so I drew my weapon and shot first. The man standing behind him responded in kind and caught my vest.”

“I got knocked back. Lucifer ran over to me. Pierce gave the order to fire.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself and taking in the rest of the room. The way Harold and Dan were at the edge of their seats, how Otis loomed watch over Lucifer, monitoring his ragged breaths. A flit of her gave to meet Chloe’s eyes let the officer know the towering woman was listening, “I was pretty sure nothing’s broken, but I still got the wind knocked out of me. I staggered back and Lucifer rushed over to me. I don’t entirely know what happened next. There was a lot of gunfire and suddenly I was on the roof.” A wing twitched, another drop of red staining linoleum. It didn’t take a forensic scientist to put together what happened.

“I got your,” she looked to Dan, “call and head downstairs. And…” Chloe trailed off. How to describe this? How to classify what she saw? She took a deep, calming breath. Words swirled in her mind, a tornado of nouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, articles, and punctuation slamming into a mental foundation thoroughly demolished by the multiple life upheavals of the past few days.

First Charlotte, then the Sinnerman, not Lucifer….

“There was so much blood.”

She didn’t think the next words so much as they impaled themselves in her brain.

“He was crouched over Pierce. He- he looked like _that._ ”

Category eight winds of language crashed on the foundation of her sanity again, again. Again. They destroyed what little remnants of doubt might have tried to take root. Again, again, again.

“He must have heard my footsteps. He got up and turned around. He saw me. His wings… dropped. Like a puppet with strings cut. He- he hissed. It was steam escaping from a volcano, the rumble before a disaster when the earth’s given up holding itself back. And he collapsed.”

Harold tented his fingers and leaned forward, fixated on Chloe, “I have… a _number_ of questions. Let’s start with this one,” He wielded his arm and accusing finger like a blade, swift and sharp to point at his patient. ”Are you telling me I just did surgery on Lucifer?”

Chloe shot the man a sideways look. That was the part he was focusing on? Sure, if you weren’t used to the name… oh, right. He wasn’t.

“He goes by Lucifer Morningstar.”

“Oh.” Harold said. The name rung a bell somewhere in the ruined husk of what was left of Harold’s mind, “So you’re _not_ trying to tell me I just treated the devil.”

Harold did _not_ like the look on Chloe’s face. Otis didn’t see the look on Chloe’s face. Dan’s face had gone back to its impression of ash.

“Not… _necessarily._ ” She almost winced as she said this. The words pained her. Her teeth snapped shut with a final clack.

All was still.

Dan shot up, the devil not at his heels, but in the same room. It was still more than enough to get the man out of the area. He staggered through the room like a drunk, barely able to stand. A number of objects crashed off shelves in his desperate grab for things to steady himself. His trail of destruction stopped at the door. He stared at the frame for a few seconds, slurred something about needing some time, and half-ran half-stumbled into the hallway. All in all, a good representation of what was going on in Harold’s mind. Add some screaming, and it was pretty much perfect.

 _“Lucky bastard,”_ Harold thought. If only he had the energy to get the #%^@ out.

“So, you _are_ trying to tell me I just treated the devil,” Harold’s brain might have just reached a new level of NO, but such didn’t impact reflexes. Sarcasm and sardonicism were his go-to tones. It was like walking, not something to even consider as you did. They were old friends, trusty weapons honed to sharp clubs, able to cut someone deep or smack them upside the head with blunt truth. Often the club would come to his aid when dealing with particularly obstinate owners, the blade could tease important details from those who thought them worthless. His blades had saved many a patient’s life.

They were also pretty handy in office banter.

Chloe sighed, “Well, one thing’s for sure, he _isn’t_ is a method actor.” She didn’t have any sort of training for this. She could keep her head in potentially deadly situations, had training on how to keep her cool if someone died in front of her. But anyone who’s ever been in a strenuous situation can tell you there’s a big difference between training and the real deal.

“Oh _really?”_ Dan took that moment to drop back in, apparently having freshened up with a bath of sardonicism so thick it was dripping from his words and getting his shoes wet, _“You. don’t. say?”_

“Really Dan? Is now the time for sarcasm?”

“I’m trying to cope in any way I can! I already tried ‘yes and-ing’ it but I keep going in circles about a goat, my mother, and the apocalypse! Humor’s the only other thing I’ve got right now!”

“Could you try something actually funny for once?” Chloe almost snapped. There was an unusual twinkle in her eye.

The same spark accompanied Dan’s response, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

They nodded, some message passed between the two Harold could only speculate on. The officer’s repor was one of people who’d known each other for years, who’d been close. They had raised a child together, they knew how the other reacted to stress. And they knew how best to cope with that. Sure, the marriage hadn’t worked out in the end, but in any relationship lasting that long you’ll get to know the other person inside and out.

“Speaking of knowing things,” Dan said, “Why am I here and not Ella?” The forensic scientist had been right beside him when they’d called Chloe and she told them she was okay. Ella was right beside him when the second call came in, a shaking voice on the other end telling him to grab the truck and come over. He’d told her they were on their way, and there was a pause. The first “no” was faint, someone’s thought they didn’t realize they said aloud. The second one was clearer. He and Ella had exchanged looks, the scientist suspecting another trap, that she was in danger and forced to say these things at gunpoint. Dan knew it wasn’t. They had code for this sort of thing. She _was_ safe.

Ella wanted to come. She knew there must have been a reason Chloe told her to stay, but dear _lord_ she’d wanted to come. But Chloe told her to stay, to only call in medical attention when she gave the all clear. Something strange just happened, but for the life of her Ella couldn’t begin to guess _what._

“One, I needed someone to help me move him. Ella wouldn’t be an ideal choice. You aren’t either, but I’ll take what I can get. Two, I don’t want her involved in this. It could get really dangerous and she doesn’t have the same field experience as you. Three, we were married so I can at least somewhat predict your reactions. They weren’t going to be good, but better the de- you know what? I’m not going to finish that saying.” Dan was more religious than Chloe had ever been but so was Ella. And while the forensic scientist expressed sympathy for the devil on a few occasions she was still a relatively unknown variable. Best to stick with what you know.

“Method actor. You thought he was a method actor.” It wasn’t a question, it was a hollow echo. It didn’t need to be a question. It didn’t even fully register. That bizarre choice of words didn’t matter. They rolled off the issue like water off a duck’s back. What mattered were the words before it.

The Devil. A beast of myth. On his operating table.

No. No. No. Maybe not. She hadn’t actually _confirmed_ anything. His only salvation in a sea of something beyond primal terror. He’d long since passed that. It was dread so deep, so pure and primal and _wrong._ It was the inverse of a monk’s enlightenment; true and pure overwhelming and constant serenity, mirrored in terror capable of rending flesh from bone and soul from body. But she hadn’t _confirmed_ anything. It was his only defense against a total collapse of his mind. He clung to that thought, a drowning man grasping at a lifeline of spider silk.

Harold wasn’t a religious man. He attended sermons about twice a year at a _very_ reform temple. But there was a _limit._ He was so far past that limit he couldn’t see it anymore due to the curvature of the earth.

Harold thought he was “Done (tm)” before. Harold knew he was "Done (tm)" before. Harold was pretty sure he was an empty shell by now. His brain still directed muscles to move, his vocal chords and tongue still functioned, but he was staring at himself from eyes not his own. His body’s eyes stared ahead, blank and glazed over.

Heat. A wave of it. So much heat. He had treated a dragon, and now they were in its throat.

A growl shook the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Anyone interested in the biology feel free to comment as I actually have a system for this sort of thing.


	5. ...Nope. Just Nope.

Saying the ground shook and their bones rattled would be cliche but accurate. Bottles crashed to the ground when their shelves shuddered and bucked beneath them. Yet, that wasn’t the thing truly rooting people in their spots. No, it was something _more._

Lurking under the tiger’s roar and warped guitar chords thrumming their chests. Under the twisted chainsaw’s growl and overlay of snapping wildfire. Under his roar was the twist of space-time.

Reality warping and writhing, snapping and twisting. It leapt around them, desperation incomprehensible to humanity. Incomprehensible, but tangible. Bones they didn’t possess chilled, scales they didn’t wear stood on end. Alternate paths of history, of evolution, saw the predator and fled.

They stood on the cliffs of oblivion, backs to the void. They didn’t look, so the void was unable to stare back. Unable to truly see the beings on the edge of its consciousness.

So it called.

Harold stumbled back. Dan dropped to his knees. Otis retreated. Chloe couldn’t move. The void may reach out and grab them if they did.

_Pain. Couldn’t move. Pain. So much pain. He couldn’t move. Trapped. What was wrong-? With his wings? Was there-? Anyone-? Else? Pain. Were they the ones-? The ones who-? Pain._

Satan’s cry rasped and shrieked. It didn’t fade to an end, it eviscerated the very concept of sound until no more could be made. None was. The room was silent. Slowly, ever so slowly, noise and space crept in, unsure if the threat had gone. If they could return to their duties.

Harold had no such question.

The sound grabbed him by the spinal cord and tossed him to the floor like a ragdoll. They were in the presence of a true apex predator, the alpha and omega. That sound would haunt his nightmares, it would herald his complete destruction, mind, body, and soul.

 _Pain. Dark. Dark? Pain. It was dark._ Confusion. _It was never dark. Pain. Where? Pain!_

Sound tested the waters, Lucifer’s chains rattling sharp against silence.

Harold was extremely grateful to his past self. Had he not triple-wrapped the chain the patient surely would’ve torn through them. As it stood they groaned and creaked in protest of the patient’s thrashing. He writhed like a caught snake, twisting and bucking, shifting direction constantly. Something _snapped._

The patient _screamed._

_Fear. Pain. Where was he? Where was his hoard?*_

Its predator injured, sound took joy in spreading the cry. A dying star, a dragon’s death knell. The clinic’s occupants froze in the wake of the nova. It left the soul’s grip on the body loose and body weak at the knees.

The devil’s cry received no response. Only constant pain. A shudder wracked his form. Feathers ruffled and resettled in a wave of daggers. Satan lay, slumped in bandage and chain. Silence, then a rattle.

It was thin, muffled. A gunshot against utter silence. The towel _moved,_ pushed by something. Up, off. It fell revealing the devil’s full head for the first time in hours. Thin horns emerged from previously invisible slits in the scalp. Long and lightly curved, gleaming the dark shine of a newly shed reptile. They rattled a diamondback’s final warning.

_Was anyone there? Pain. Who? Did you do this? Pain._

The hiss of venting steam joined the chorus. An active geyser, the furious spitting snarling hiss of a reptile echoing in the depths of caves unknown to man or beast.

The devil drew his foot under him. Those claws -previously the glowing white of a blazing forge, now gleaming blacker than dead coal- disappeared under his prone form. No one moved, paralyzed by a single being’s discordant chorus of fear.

He leapt!

Wings pinned to his sides, arms bound beneath the same chain, he landed, hunched and scoring floor with dark talons. Chain clattered its addition to the cacophony of chaos, horn, tongue, and chain melding into pure malice and terror.

His jaw split. Vertically.

Like someone unzipping his neck, true teeth unmeshed to open the throat into a maw. A second and third tongue showed their black forms, darting with reptilian intent. The teeth Harold saw before stood on end. They shook like the devil’s spines.

 _He could see! Pain. Where was he? Everything’s_ off. _Pain. Pain! PAIN!_

“Freeze.” A human voice spoke up for the first time in eternity. Otis didn’t whisper, didn’t talk, she hissed the order with the authority of a survivor. Any move could be their last. One wrong step and everyone was dead. Proceed with caution and stability or pay the price. She stood between the doctor and his patient. A stone wall against something not caring for architecture. Harold never heard Otis more fearful.

His breath tightened in his chest at her raspy waver. He’d seen the woman face down cassowaries with little fear. Caution, yes. That was simple self preservation. Those without caution didn’t last long. But this was different. It was true _fear._ Fear clouded judgment, it led people to short sighted solutions. It got people killed. Fear was something he’d never seen in his assistant.

Something hard and cold lodged itself in his chest. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe. A final drop of blood ran down the devil’s wing, tracing edges of darkening feathers on its journey to linoleum.

 _Pain. Pain! PAIN! What?!_ PAIN!

No one breathed. The cold thing in Harold’s chest spread its tendrils. Fire crept at his fingertips. Real or the products of an oxygen-starved mind, Harold didn’t know. The tendrils _squeezed._

Harold coughed.

Feral orange, eyes of a beast pained beyond reason or logic. Deep brown, the windows to the soul of a man who feared for theirs. They locked.

 _Pain. So much. He_ hurt. _He couldn’t_ move. _Couldn’t_ fly. _Pain. He was vulnerable. Pain. What happened? Pain. Pain! Why were they doing this?!_

Something echoed through empty clinic halls. Not a growl or a roar, but pure, unbridled _threat._ It unfurled from a three-tongued maw, coiling and slithering and whipping against the lizard brain of any who heard it. Slamming on the part of the brain screaming _RUN!_

The devil put one claw in front of the other. A catwalk in every sense of the word. Silent stalking but for the fading sound of menace and rolling clatter of claws on tile. He was an insect before an eagle. He couldn’t jump, couldn’t chirp. His only hope was remaining still and hoping, _praying_ it didn’t consider him worth the effort. He couldn’t breathe.

The devil snapped his attention where Otis knelt. Her hand was mere inches from the fallen catchpole.

 _Pain. Pain! Why? Why mutilate_ him? _Why? Why? Pain. Why? Why? Why? Why were they doing this?_

A tiny shift of weight. He lunged! The pole’s loop snapped around his neck. He gagged. He writhed, the dragon on the end of Saint George’s lance. Otis’ knee struck linoleum. Her arms shook. A warbling screeching terrified call. The snap of the pole cracking. Otis’ fingers dangerously close to Satan’s teeth.

Harold moved before he knew it. One pole thrown to Dan. Harold took the third. Dan didn’t move. Chloe snatched it from her unresponsive ex. She didn’t have much experience with it. It didn’t matter. It couldn't. Not now. She looped her friend’s neck.

 _Pain. Why?_ Pain. _Why?_ Pain! _Why?_ PAIN! _Why?!_ PAIN!!! _WHY?!_

 _It_ Hurt. _It all_ HURT.

She yanked. The devil gagged and stumbled. Harold took his opportunity. He caught a foot. He pulled. Otis stabbed her pole past his neck. Chloe yanked back.

WHAM!

Harold’s high nerves did nothing to stop his wince. The devil landed on his back. On the injured wings. Not good. But they weren’t done. Not yet. One foot was still free. Those claws flashed.

“Dan!” Chloe snapped, “Grab his other foot!”

Hot red decorating the killing claw shattered Dan’s frozen inaction. He cursed. The cop lunged for the bloody talon. One hand on the claw, then the other. Dan lay on the devil’s legs.

Warmth and pain. Then no pain. Harold was in shock.

Two people at the shoulders, two at the feet. Desperate gasps and rattling chains, dripping blood and the shattering hiss of a being stressed beyond thought.

And then another sound. His heart sank further. He wasn’t aware it was possible, and yet.

A human hiss of pain. The room was hot, his blood was hot. The chill in his bone had nothing to do with either.

The creature under his hands stilled. Muscles bunched under Dan’s fingers, tense and tight. One second, two, three, fou-

The devil fell limp. A broken limb, gunshot wounds, blood loss, the weight of four people, stress, and exhaustion proving too much for even a supernatural creature.

Harold peeked up, past Otis to see Chloe kneeling by the devil’s head. One hand still at her pole, the other with fingers threaded through his spines. Her coaxing touch eased them down, ceasing their clattering. They lay limp and pliant beside the creature’s lolling head.

Otis let out a sigh. Her relief was palpable. Harold only tasted blood. Why? He didn’t know. He could see his ribs. They‘d looked better, but they’d done their job. They’d protected his organs. It was bad, but if he could stem the bleeding he’d live. Probably.

Harold looked to the nigerian woman, desperate hope even he knew was futile burning in his eyes. Blood coated her back. Harold hadn’t even seen it bite her.

Lucifer bucked. He snapped, chains rattling. Harold gasped for air as the wind was knocked from him. The cut on his torso _burned._

Harold’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He couldn’t move. None of them could. Not if they wanted to survive. This was it, wasn’t it? This was how he was going to die. His vision tunneled. His breath tightened.

Sudden sound snapped sharp under his nose. Otis’ fingers remained outstretched, ready to refocus him again if need be. Harold met her gaze. He thought he was _done_ with terror, but no. The body has a special stash saved up for just these occasions.

Harold was _pissed._ He was done with terror. He was done with everything.

This creature snapped one of their poles just out of surgery. Poles built to withstand the deathroll of a crocodile.

Harold shook. From fear, rage, or blood loss, he didn’t know. Otis grabbed his chin, staring him straight in the eye. “Look.”

Whatever emotion he may have felt faded to confusion. Harold could _feel_ the eyeroll Otis held back, “My back.”

Yes, a bloo- no. No. It was drying. Nothing new. How? How?!

A mass of new scar tissue became apparent as Otis wiped away the mess with the fallen towel. Ragged bite marks. She only got the bite a few seconds ago. She should still be bleeding. Otis looked at the dirtied towel with narrowed eyes.

“Get a towel.” She didn’t address the order. Looks were exchanged. Who would go? Who was the least vital in keeping Lucifer down? Chloe stood and got the towel. The devil hissed, jackhammer chatters underpinning the protest.

“Wipe his mouth.” Otis jerked her head to the surgeon. Harold glanced at the damp towel, shrugged, and pressed the spit-coated cloth to the wound. It wasn’t like he could get worse than “dying of blood loss.”

Only a second passed before adrenaline-blocked pain faded. Any lower and he would’ve seen his guts. Harold had gotten lucky, if that could be applied to his situation. All that remained was the fresh scar, a ruined shirt, and mental trauma. To be fair, that last one was present for at least a couple hours prior to the slashing.

Lucifer bucked again. Marvel at medical wizardry later. Deal with upset devil now.

“Why won’t you just _stay down_ you bastard?!” Dan said, hacking as a knee hit his gut. “We’re -gah!- We’re trying to _help!_ ”

“Hey!” Chloe barked, back by Lucifer’s head. Her tone was one Harold was familiar with, having used it on unruly dogs more times than he could count. Stern, but not aggressive or loud. “Hey…” She switched tones, the second word far gentler. Almost cooing. Soothing. She knelt by his head, one hand on the pole, the other twining itself through his spiny crest.

“Guys,” she addressed the humans of the room, “I don’t think he knows what’s going on. Look at his eyes.”

“Little busy here.”

“Then just take my word for it. They’re unfocused.”

Harold glanced at the claws that nearly responsible for his disembowelment. Deep black painted in red. Black… they were white before.

“See that?” Harold nodded to the claws, “A lot of reptiles turn black as a sign of stress. I’m willing to bet your friend does something similar.”

Chloe’s soothing helped. The spines lightened just a touch, less abyss of deep space and more dark drey of a foggy night. Harold didn’t know how long they sat there. The creature didn’t try to buck them again. It shook, yes, but they’d felt their last spasm.

A purr like a passing train rattled Harold’s teeth. Otis remained stoick as ever. Something was very wrong with that. She hadn’t panicked, barely even reacted at the sight of their patient.

“How are you so _calm?!_ ” There were probably better ways to ask that. Harold was so beyond caring he might’ve actually looped back to giving a $#!&.

“I’ve dealt with similar weird.” It was so nonchalant, the accompanying shrug so casual, Harold’s brain took a minute to actually process what she said.

“What?!” Harold didn’t know who yelped.

Otis didn’t care. Whoever said it didn’t matter. They’d get the same answer either way, “Fresno Nightcrawlers.”

Harold’s jaw dropped. The police’s eyebrows rose. A number of questions hung in the air, but judging by Otis’ clenched jaw they wouldn’t be getting any answers. Otis liked her privacy, her mysteries. And so did the Marksmith’s. They’d only approached her in the first place because something had gone wrong with Tula’s labor and she was the closest being with opposable thumbs.

Dan tilted his head, considering. “So, you’re telling me you’re only dealing with the revelation of _another_ previously-thought-to-be mythological creature while we’re shell shocked by their existence in general?”

She gave the “eh, what can you do?” shrug.

Harold buried his face in his hands, whacking himself in the nose when he forgot he was still holding a catchpole. The devil gave a small rumble. Harold grumbled, “When this is over you and I are going to have _words.”_

The cocky question of “you and what army?” was encompassed by the quirk of a single scarred eyebrow.

Snap!

All eyes jerked to the prone punisher. So, the snapping sound wasn’t the shredded remnants of Harold’s sanity. Good to know. Less good would be what made that noise. In his line of work a snap was rarely a good sound.

That time it was no different.

A link completely snapped. He’d torn thick chain in two with a broken limb. Right after surgery. And he was only getting stronger.

“Come on, I know my partner’s in there.” The plea was edged by desperation. Chains wouldn’t hold him much longer. If he was let loose as he was, with little to no cognitive thought…

Black membrane slid over burning orange orbs in a crocodile blink. Lucifer leaned into his friend’s hand. The nictitating membrane slid across his eyes once more. Those eyes were pools of fire like nothing Harold had seen before. He was looking at portals to the earth’s molten core. Those blazing eyes turned to Chloe.

Round pupils saw clearly for the first time since the shooting.

* * *

Here's a picture of what Lucifer would at least sort of look like at full health if non-restrained:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note regarding the teeth: When the mouth is closed they mesh together like a mutilating zipper. This left nothing for Harold to feel during his inspection of the throat.
> 
> *Hoard in this case refers to a group of people and a group of things. It’s what a group of angels is called, just like a group of crows is called a murder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this seems rushed or disjointed. I did my best, but had a hard time putting it together. Either way, I hope you enjoy the final chapter.

Lucifer made a noise somewhat comparable to a chainsaw voicing its confusion and jerked against the binds. Chloe grabbed his spines at the base and forced his head to the floor.

“Lucifer.“You’re safe. I’m safe. Be calm.”

He stilled. Satan blinked once, twice, three times. Sharp black spines began their fade to a neutral grey. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he asked a question.

“Where… where am I?” It was like each set of teeth got its own mouth, its own voice. Layered on top of itself, echoing with not room to do so but the confines of one’s own head.

“Paris.” Whoops, there goes the sardonicism again. The head snapped to him. Harold froze. Lucifer froze. Slowly, ever so slowly, Lucifer turned back to his partner.

“We’re at a veterinary clinic.”

Lucifer jerked against her hand. His attempt to reel back in affronted indignation was cut short by chains, his own prone position, and Chloe’s firm grip on his spines. “A _vet?!_ I’m not a bloody pigeon!”

“You’re certainly _were_ that first bit.” Lucifer’s gaze snapped to the doctor once more.

“And _who_ might _you_ be?”

The devil was asking his name. Huh. Harold figured he probably should be terrified, but nope. The backup terror was empty too. “I’m the guy who just spent four hours removing bullets, dressing wounds, and setting a wing on a species with more natural weapons than an armory. Not to mention the mind-melting terror and near-evisceration.”

“... Not what I asked, but fair play. I’ll go first. I’m Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil.” His face and neck* split with a grin of Lovecraftian nightmare, “And you are?”

“Exhausted. Not paid nearly enough for this.”

Lucifer narrowed hiss eyes. “Who are you? What’s -GAH!” A spasm wracked his form. The devil curled in on himself as much as he could, “Why does everything hurt?!”

“In order: Harold, I don’t know what ‘gah’ is, and because you’re in the same shape as my sanity. That is, not good. Now, I have no less than three dozen questions, two tangents, and a stark-raving mad diatribe. Before we get to any of that I have one very important question: Do you plan on disemboweling anyone _else?”_

“Why, I wouldn’t-” Harold cut him off with a gesture to his ruined shirt, blood still drying. There was a pause.

“You really lived up to the name ‘old scratch,’ huh?” Harold said, going on to mutter, “not sure about the ‘old’ part though.”

“I wouldn’t _consciously-_ ” Harold cut him off again. The devil was absolutely affronted, teeth clacking together and grinding like a sander.

“Yes or no.”

“I have no plans to disembowel anyone here at the moment. Keep interrupting me and that may change.”

“That’s probably the best we’re getting doc.”

Harold threw his hands in the air, “Fine! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom. I’ve been at this for hours with little break. Oh, and if someone could get me some water and something to eat. And I need to sleep. You know, just general human things. Sorry if that’s disrespectful, considering you’re _not._ ” The last bit was addressed to his patient.

The devil was more confused than affronted. How does one respond to _that?_ It’s not like he was wrong, per say, but… it didn’t matter either way. The doctor made his egress, leaving three humans and the devil in fresh silence.

“How is it you sometimes look human?”

Lucifer blinked. It seemed Dan would begin their little session of twenty questions. Not quite the person or inquiry he was expecting, “Is that really your first question?”

“No! I don’t know what my first question is! There are way too many! What even _are_ you? Are you the devil? Are you evil? I’m _pretty_ sure you’re not evil. Definitely a dick, but not evil. And you killed Pierce! Who is Cain from the bible if everything you’ve told me is true?! Why? Was it self defense? Murder? Vengeance for some unknown wrong? And more importantly, how is _any_ of this even _possible?!”_ Dan was panting by the end of his rant.

“Well then. That seems a little more like it.” Such questions were somewhat tedious, hurtful, and rather expected, but that was to be expected. “I’m not evil. I thought I made this quite clear, but alas. Peirce _was_ Cain. It was mainly the latter, but he also asked for it. There was also a good touch of vengeance involved, so take that as you will.”

A pregnant pause crept over the room. Sounds of clattering were heard down the hall. The devil coughed.

“... And the possibility bit?” Chloe said, breaking the quiet with a sizable degree of awkwardness.

Before he could answer, Harold made his presence known once more. The man sat back down, simultaneously ignoring and destroying lingering awkwardness. He pulled out a list longer than his arm. “Now-”

Dan cut him off, “Where were you keeping that?”

“Pocket.”

Otis raised an eyebrow. Harold waved her off.

“They don’t _come_ with pockets, but it’s amazing what a little free time, a needle, thread, and a complete disregard for life can do.” Harold said with the flipancy of one who already faced death that day.

Lucifer chuffed, “Don’t I know it.”

“I’d slap your back, but I’m rather attached to this hand.” Harold said.

“I like you. You’re funny.”

“Alas, looks never last.”

The devil and doctor shared grins, each with the personality of a shark, only one with the dentalware to match. Chloe narrowed her eyes, looking at the teeth.

“How _do_ you look human most of the time?”

Lucifer partook the well-worn sibling pastime of answering a question with a question, “I’ll assume you’re aware of an octopus’ color and texture changing capabilities?”

Harold nodded. There was another pause.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing like that, is it?”

Lucifer’s soul-eating grin was the only answer they needed.

Wishing to linger on anything besides the devil’s many _many_ teeth, Dan took his opportunity to change the subject, “How are you so light?”

“Why, I never!” He reeled back in mock apal.

Dan leveled him a look more flat than terrified, “You know exactly what I mean. Those wings should add a couple pounds.”

“They’re _wings._ I have to be light so I can _fly._ It would be a rather awkward if I couldn’t, now wouldn’t it?”

“So you _are_  a flying creature. Interesting.” Lucifer and Chloe exchanged a look. When was that even in question? Harold ignored their looks, “What about the metal?”

“Metal?” Lucifer cocked his head, spines rattling against each other and the back wall. He looked to the links trapping his torso. Black slid over his eyes once more, nictating membranes clearing potential disruptions.

Harold leaned back in his chair, arms up and hands behind his head, “Those slugs weren’t the only metal I found in your wings. You know you got veins of the stuff winding through your bones?”

Another jerk of the head, back in surprise this time, “Actually, no.”

“No?” If Harold’s eyebrows were any higher they’d be floating off his face. The doctor really didn’t need _another_ unprecedented medal snafu so did his best to curb them.

The devil shook his head. “No. When would I have the opportunity to figure it out? While I was brutalizing myself? While unconscious from pain?”

The only sound breaking the following silence was the awkward drumming of nails on tile. A light flickered. Chloe cleared her throat, “By the way, how much _are_ we paying for this?”

“A few thousand for the surgery. No clue about the silence. And you’re _definitely_ footing my therapy bills.”

The devil grinned. “I know a therapist.” 

Harold was not expecting that. He really should’ve given up trying to predict things when the cops dragged a creature of myth into his office, but what can you do? Habits are habits.

“Voice of the Legion” is a decently well known trope. It’s when a being appears to speak with multiple voices layered over each other. Harold knew the trope. He’d seen the trope in his fair share of films. He’d never experienced it in real life. He expected most people hadn't. He also never thought he’d hear it complain about an itchy nose, yet here we are.

“My nose itches.”

“I’d offer to scratch it but I’m distrustful of any part of our face being secretly sharp and/or deadly.”

The devil leveled a glare for the damned at the doctor before drawing back into his own aggravated preoccupation, “Itchy. Why am I so -gah! Sheesha’s nonexistent fingernails, that _smarts!_ ”

“That would be the multiple bullet holes and broken bone.” Another glare, “You can keep looking at me like that. It’s not going to change anything. Now, I’d like to get back to my list.” He gestured to the aforementioned paper. “First order on the docket: anyone _else_ have any secrets I should know?!”

Otis made a so-so gesture with her hand. At Harold’s scathing glare she shrugged and hooked her thumb under a previously hidden cord around her neck. A gold ring shaped like a ram’s head with silver fur and ruby eyes dangled from the chord.

“You?!” Dan squawked. Chloe raised an eyebrow, “Recent case. Found a body with a ring kind of like that. Position was strange. Almost sacrificial.”

Otis nodded.

“Let me guess, you’re a member.”

“Co-leader.”

“I’m _done._ ” Dan stood and left the room.

“Get back in here, or I’m telling people about The Napalm!” You could hear the capital letters.

The man froze mid-step. “You _swore.”_

“I did. And _we_ won’t be speaking of it. I’ll merely tell everyone _else.”_

A glint lit up Lucifer’s eye, “Why Chloe! You never told me you were such a dealsmith!”

Dan glared. “You’re taking pages from _his_ book now?” He nodded to the prone devil.

Lucifer snorted. “Considering we’re speaking rather than merely gesturing and hoping the other will figure it out, I’d say we’re _all_ taking a page from my book.”

“No. No.” The second declaration rose an octave from the first, “I don’t care. Tell them. I’m not doing this.” Dan made for the hall. Chloe made a motion as though to follow him, but Lucifer’s “doe-eyes” stopped her. How he managed “doe eyes” with a face more in common with a deep-sea predator was beyond her.

Dan’s muffled scream gargled through the hall about a minute later.

Otis opened her mouth as though to speak but decided against it. The motion didn’t go unnoticed. “No, no. Tell us. What is it?” Harold said.

Otis shook her head and waved him off. She rubbed the ring’s head, between its horns. Lucifer wasn’t about to let it rest though. He craned his head to get a better view of the accessory, neck stretching straight into the uncanny valley.

“Is that Heimrich’s crest?” A black harpoon of a tongue darted from the neck-maw. The gesture was an inquisitive one. Harold had seen it on his fair share of reptiles.

Otis shrugged, “We call it ‘That of Horns.’”

Harold threw his arms in the air, much like Dan before him. “Could you _be_ any more ominous!”

The aforementioned cop chose that moment to make his re-entry. Water dripped from his hair. The man must’ve dunked his head in the bathroom sink.

“You got that out of your system?” The man almost got the chance to answer, finger in the air and mouth open when Lucifer blew past him, returning to Otis, “That’s Heimrich all right. She and I are going to have _words_ after this.” His eyes blackened, “There are rules about sacrifices.”

“There are. Rules. About. Human. Sacrifices.” Dan said. His eyes stared past the room, not focusing on any one thing.

“Yes! Do keep up.”

“Rules.” Dan echoed.

“Yes. Are you hard of hearing?” Lucifer said. With Chloe’s help and an hiss of pain he wriggled into a sitting position with his back against the wall.

Dan blinked, “No. Just… _rules.”_

“Yes…” Lucifer’s tone was gentle. Had he broken the human? Why was he so hung up over _rules_ of all things?

Chloe snapped her fingers, metaphorical lightbulb going off over her head, “That’s why you’re always so insistent on keeping your suits tidy!”

The devil threw his partner an approving look. Dan, on the other hand, was converting to Harold’s new philosophy: “@#^! It.” He hadn’t fully seen that light however, so he still had a few #@%^s to give.

“What? Did I miss something?”

Chloe waved him off, “Later.”**

Harold seized his opportunity to change the subject, “How do you look human?”

Instead of speaking, Satan demonstrated. Deep, jagged scars filled in. Red skin paled. Talons sheathed and toes shifted. Scales smoothed against each other. Spines retracted. If you ignored the wings and deep psychological scars, he could pass as human.

“Where do those go?” Chloe gestured to the back of her own head.

Lucifer chuckled, “These?” The spines flicked back out, a deadly switchblade knife snapping from its sheath. “Take a close look.”

A giddy warmth overtook the devil. Even restrained, this was going so much better than he could’ve ever drempt. They were scared, yes. It was obvious, even without cortisol and adrenaline so thick in the air it was practically soup. But they hadn’t finished him when he was down. They’d taken him to a doctor (of sorts). They were asking _questions._

Humans feared the unknown. It was a fact of existence. A fear he’d witnessed the birth of.

Humans had three responses to that fear. The first two were rejection. Most had heard of the active variants: fight or flight. The passive option -freeze- wasn’t as well known even though many people did just that.

But there was an even more obscure option: friend. Make the unknown, known. Shine a light in the dark place. It’s use waxed and waned over millennia. It was never the most popular option. It was liable to kill you in a number of cases.

But sometimes, it would open new avenues you’d never think possible. It could save your life in the right circumstances. It was certainly saving Lucifer from emotions he’d rather not consider at the moment.

“You told me you didn’t have horns!” As if on cue, Chloe pulled him from any further machinations on _that_ particular subject.

“I don’t!”

“I do believe I may be able to shed some light on this situation.” Said Harold, “Horns aren’t retractable. This leads me to believe _those_ are some kind of crest. Perhaps even fish-like spines.”

“Hmm. Why does your saliva heal?” Otis said.

“We’re warriors. Every one of us can act as a field medic.”***

Chloe nodded slowly, “Okay, but wouldn’t that render any bite rather worthless?”

“Yeah, but it’s a good distraction. Besides, these,” He flashed a smile to make a xenomorph jealous, “aren’t really weapons.”

All that blood was from a single bite. And he didn’t consider them weapons. _Those_ weren’t weapons.

“Then what _is?!”_

Scale-feather ruffled and a foot tapped in response.

“Of _course._ ”

“Of course,” Lucifer echoed, “and if someone would let me up so I can at the very _least_ wash the blood off I would be most appreciative.”

Harold crossed his arms over the gash in his shirt, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Until I’m one hundred percent sure you’re not going to harm anyone here, you’re not going free. That, and they’re supporting your wing. We’ll need to find a new cast material first.”

Conversation carried like that for a few more minutes before Harold realized consciousness wasn’t on his side. He honestly wasn’t sure how much of the last ten minutes was a dream. He hoped the bit about the goat and the side-mirror was all in his head, but he couldn’t be sure.

He was later alerted he agreed to continue as the devil’s physician in return for substantial payment, a sworn promise not to disturb his sleep for anything other than life-changing circumstances, a continual promise to foot his therapy bills, a nice piece of venison, and a “get-out-of-rapture-free” card.

Harold couldn’t be sure how to feel about that. On one hand, trauma for the foreseeable future. On the other, he’d really come through with the venison. It was a really nice piece of meat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Do not ask how a neck can smile. You probably don’t want to know.
> 
> **Lucifer is an entity of many things. Organization is one of them. Without rules there’s anarchy. Of course, he only abides the rules he deems necessary.
> 
> And yes, I did consider including a Kill la Kill reference.
> 
> ***Funnily enough, angels can’t use own saliva to heal themselves. It doesn’t work on its owner. This was a failsafe to keep an uprising of self-healers from occurring. Angel saliva does work on other entities though, including other angels.


End file.
